A/N: A thousand kisses to MidnightSilver who literally gave me the most wholesome and gratifying experience writing a fic I've ever had. Without her enthusiastic emails and mind-blowing witchcraft (that she just calls 'art' somehow like it's not devil magic) coming back to me after I'd finished writing new segments, this story wouldn't be what it is. It would have been categorically shorter and worse.

So to find MidnightSilver's incredible art for this fic, it's all at archiveofourown dot org slash works slash 19068466

Second, my beta and sister. Thank you so much for taking the 6+ hours of effort going through polishing this fic with me this weekend (and thank Luna for lazy Sundays).

Third, the SPN Dystopia Mods, dreamsfromthebunker and enoliel. You two are absolutely tremendous. Thank you so much for hosting this bang. It was so immensely rewarding. I can't wait to sign up for it again!

And finally to my readers. Happy dark dystopian readings...

Dean surveyed the "entertainment," each stationed in their own hideously artistic booths spread over these subterranean fairgrounds. The main floor of the Cheyenne Club was above the vaulted ceiling over Dean's head, the same music blasting through the speakers onto this basement floor as well. In the center, a huge spinning disco ball spun shafts of rainbow colors over them. But this lower level reeked of pain and desperation underneath the glitzy drug-induced performances from these pleasure slaves. Dean thanked Luna he had taken a low grade suppressant before arriving so his senses couldn't pick out any more revolting details. He wouldn't be able to keep his cover otherwise.

Sheldon, a Leviathan and Dean's sycophantic assistant for the evening, escorted him up and down the labyrinthine crawl. Dean didn't have to look down at the cement flooring to know there were drains every ten feet or so, originally built as a lab space. The estate itself had been constructed during the cold war as a bunker for top government officials in case of nuclear fallout. There was much more to this place than a single basement bullpen: Dean was sure prisoner cells, auction rooms, and fighting rings were all here. He steeled himself with the single-minded intention to have his own slave for the evening. He had hinted that if Sheldon played his cards right and recommended the best his establishment had to offer, perhaps a full-fledged purchase well over the going rate of any of these creatures could be made. It'd be a decent commission. That was when the Leviathan had gone sycophantic and that suited Dean just fine.

With all the confidence and swagger Dean possessed he strolled along with Sheldon, eyeing every creature and angling his repulsion to seem as though he were flamboyantly contemptuous of the booths and what they held inside. Each creature had a gimmick, their booth set to match. A kitsune dancing with glow-in-the-dark neon body paint. A satyr wrapped in nothing but fake wreaths and ivy leaves. A vampire, nude and squirming around on a bright white floor, spreading red paint to look like blood with their hands. All of them were here against their will, enslaved, their eyes empty and haunted. While Dean would love to hope most of these creatures were hell-borne or hell-bound, supernatural due to how pure the evil was in their blood, he wasn't under any illusions. He'd seen plenty of clubs like these and he knew the management aggressively sought after neutral or even benevolent creatures because they were more manageable thus made better slaves.

Dean bypassed a small shadowed booth in the corner between a siren dressed in sequins crooning "Blue Moon" into a 1920's style microphone and a chained giant dressed like Tarzan. He hadn't expected his senses to play much of a part at this juncture but he stopped, surprised. There was something wild - something that belonged to the moon and Earth. Something like him.

Dean backtracked and squinted into the tiny area, dark and absent of any alluring hook that Dean could see. It made little sense. Why put a creature on the floor at all if not to display them?

Coming close, Dean could make out the trembling body, kneeling and hunched over in rags. This made even less sense to him now - the creature itself hadn't even been prepped for display.

"This one," Dean sneered. He stepped over the one-inch lift onto the booth's platform where the creature knelt. Dean's senses may have been suppressed but his night vision was still functional enough to sight dried blood and bruises. Dean sniffed furtively and a chill shot through him; raised the hairs on his arms. It was an extension of what he'd felt a few seconds ago only this time stronger: a deep and urgent familiarity.

This was a were of some kind.

Dean swore to himself. This shouldn't be happening. Nearly all weres in the states were accounted for and protected. How had this one slipped through? And what kind of were was this? By scent, it definitely wasn't a wolf. Not a bear either. Maybe a fox? Going without his enhanced senses had suddenly annoyed Dean far more than it ever had during these types of operations.

"Sir, are you sure?" Sheldon's whiny voice grated against Dean's thoughts and brought him back to the present. "This one is in bad shape since his... last client."

"Yes I'm sure," Dean replied and the were - it was a young man, Dean could see - shook. Dean winced with empathy and turned it into an appraising squint. He stepped closer and the slave subtly leaned away but not so much that Dean didn't notice the twitches and movement along the top of his head. It was almost as though something were nestled inside the matted brown hair. "What…" Dean's eyes widened when he reached out and touched.

They were ears. Distinctly feline ears pressed low and flat along the sides of the man's head, a universal fear response in cats.

"A werecat?" Dean whispered, awe-stricken. The slave's ears pressed themselves even further against his skull.

Dean stepped back and gave Sheldon his most disdainful glare.

"Why was I not informed you had a werecat?" He gritted out.

"Uh..." Sheldon, clasped at his wrists nervously and shuffled in place. "Werecats weren't in your profile, sir-"

"Because they're practically extinct!" Dean barked. "Take him to a private room. I need to spend some time with him," Dean ordered solicitously with no cruel or lustful intent, forgetting his cover. He cleared his throat. "I need to spend time with him before we... rejoin the... pleasures to be found in the more public spaces," Dean explained further, dripping lecherous charm for Sheldon. It seemed to set the Leviathan at ease.

"Of course, sir. Right away." He simpered.

—

Sam let the guards strip him and spray him down. A couple attendants too young for the display floor washed and oiled his body in the parlor. It was a numbing, impersonal process. Sam betrayed nothing, his expression determinedly blank as they draped a wispy sheath of amber silk over him when they were done. It was a far more delicate, expensive fabric than the rags to which he was accustomed. It slipped and slid over his body against the oils still sinking into lacerated and bruised skin and muscle. It had a slit all the way up the back too for his tail - short, tan, black-tipped and extending from the base of his spine.

When the john had ordered a private room for them Sam knew he had to be pretty loaded but this preparation was something else.

Sam wondered how Jack was fairing with Tennyson upstairs. It was Jack's first day serving the primary owner and accountant of Cheyenne Club, having been chosen recently by an upper management rep neither of them had seen before. Jack had been whisked away immediately as though his value had only just been realized.

Or maybe the fates felt like cruelty that day, taking away the one thing Sam still loved and protected.

Regardless, Sam bore the anxiety of not knowing. That he had his own survival to think about helped. Jack wasn't the only one between them that had captured the eyes and focus of a higher-up. The leviathan most infatuated with Sam, Sebastian, was the worst of all of them by reputation and in reality. Sam thanked Luna every day the cruel creature hadn't noticed Jack.

Hopefully he would be the only wounded between them tonight and far into the future. He could carry that. He would have to.

But what he always struggled with most was unpredictability and this john - the creature, whatever it was, that had ordered him from the display floor - was unpredictable in the worst sense of the word. Sam was already beaten and injured; he couldn't take much more. Sebastian only put him on the display floor all night as a form of further punishment to deprive him of sleep, not because he thought a john would actually select him. This was an unexpected development that was making Sam tremble if he thought too much about it. Because no one except a sadist of the highest level would have selected Sam this evening.

Sam closed his eyes and breathed. He was wrested up from his seat in the parlor. As they walked down the hall to the sound-proof suite, Sam promised himself he wasn't going to think about this client until the last minute he had to face it. Sam was a survivor. No other people lived more in the moment than survivors.

However nothing could stop him from trembling when he was ushered into the suite. The executive suite. He'd never been in this room before. Opulent with dark stained oak floors, an old Turkish carpet, a velvet armchair next to a giant four-poster bed with intricate carvings, no windows, and a huge armoire probably full of "equipment." There were similar cupboards in the lower rent rooms in the East wing where Sam usually served.

The bed itself was all deep red satin sheets and pillow cases, lighter shades of red cotton linens above those. Sam knew there would be a thin layer of plastic below the fitted sheet. It didn't matter how dressed up the rooms got. They always got messy in the end.

Sam was positioned face down against the pillows. It was a default position when the clients didn't specify. A lot of the clients didn't like looking into the slaves' eyes. It had little to do with guilt and everything to do with how hollow the slaves' eyes were; Sam wasn't the only one that dissociated.

The mattress was firm, the bed frame sturdy. His handlers didn't tie his limbs to the bedposts, a blessing, but Sam had laid down spread-eagled anyway, tail close to his body pressed tight along his thigh. He hoped the lack of restraints were due to the john's disinterest in bondage. Then again he might just prefer doing them himself. Sam had to be open and adaptable... and as soon as he'd done enough to satisfy, he would be able to mentally drift for the rest of it.

Sam lay there for awhile trying his best to keep calm. The sounds of two men talking - definitely Sheldon, Sam recognized, and that'd make the other his john - approached and stopped just outside the door.

Sam perfected his posture by tensing everything and gripping the sides of the bed. His heart raced and Sam cursed himself when his breath soon followed suit with rapid shallow inhalations. He hadn't been this scared in awhile. He was in such bad shape already that if this guy was remotely rough Sam might not make it.

Sam clenched his jaw and distanced himself. Vaguely detached, he wondered if Sebastian would care. If in the creature's infinite capacity to inflict pain upon him and enjoy it, he might find it in himself to save Sam from this john.

But Sheldon was relatively new and didn't know how deep Sebastian's fixation on Sam was. There was no reason Sheldon would mention this to Sebastian and Sam hadn't seen anyone else witness this transaction who'd alert Sebastian. He was on his own.

The door opened and Sam could make out the last of their conversation.

"-sure to have a table open and ready for you as soon as you finish up here."

"Don't wait up," the john chuckled darkly. "We might be some time."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and tried to keep his breath steady. In his mind he repeated the solemn lyrics "que sera sera," a lullaby his mother would sing to him when he'd been young and she'd been alive.

"Take all the time you need and then some, sir," Sheldon replied unctuously.

"Thank you."

The door closed.

Sam couldn't stop himself from holding his breath, straining to hear the creature no doubt still by the door just looking at him. He also couldn't help the minuscule shivers sweeping up and down his spine every few seconds.

The footsteps started forward. Sam didn't dare do or say anything.

"Green in position," Dean ordered and Sam froze, terrified, wondering what position he'd just been ordered to take when Dean continued, "Executive suite, still level one below. Patch me in when Wings is in position but not before, copy?"

What the hell? Sam made a face into the pillow. Communication devices weren't allowed here. Sam was even pretty sure the club had jammers.

The instinctive curiosity of werecats emerging, Sam repressed his urge to squirm and watch the creature, instead just tilting his head to see out of the corner of his eye. The man - Sam would put him around his middle or late twenties - was taller than most, cutting an imposing figure even standing alone by the door touching his finger to his ear's comm device. He wore a maroon velvet blazer and black slacks perfectly fitted and streamlined along a muscular frame. His features were breathtaking even to Sam who thought his appreciation for aesthetics like these had long since abandoned him: full defined lips, straight nose, high cheekbones, vivid green eyes that nearly met his but Sam looked away just in time.

Sam clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and squeezed the sides of the mattress harder as the john approached him. Tremors stole through his body, so bluntly fearful now: just because this creature was breaking the rules with comms didn't mean the night was going to go any differently for Sam.

Sam tried not to flinch when the bed dipped with the john's weight to his left. The man sighed and Sam gasped and shivered in barely contained panic at the man's touch against the back of his neck.

It was just a warm palm. Sam ruled 'vampire' out of the list of creatures this one could be and gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes in anticipation. He'd been subject to client trying to manhandle him by the scruff of his neck like they'd seen cats do with their kittens. It just ended up hurting him as he'd stumble in pain. They'd let go and Sam would finally get to collapse.

This one was doing something different though. He slid his palm along Sam's spine before picking it up off Sam's skin to repeat the gesture at the base of his skull again.

Sam wondered how the man knew to be so careful with keeping his caresses in one specific direction from up to down his body. An instinctive holdover with his other true form, even thinking about rubs up his body made him cringe.

Sam never cried but his eyes pricked as the gentle touch worked its magic. Sam wished he was a full human sometimes, able to ignore or even reject soothing touches and the automatic bonds of affection they formed in werecreatures. His only leverage was that this client - whatever creature he was - probably had no idea how deeply this was affecting him.

Still, they hadn't spoken a single word to one another and already Sam was more anxious than he'd been before. Whether this man knew what he was doing or not, his gentle touches, so careful and affectionate, were tripping Sam's instincts to return them. It wasn't sex yet so much as an atavistic drive to engage further, interact, touch and learn about this creature treating him so well.

And that's why tonight was shaping up to be the most frightening experience Sam had ever had. Because when things got started tonight, Sam was damned. There was no way he could be anything but present and engaged in what would happen tonight. The ability to dissociate was vanishing at every soft stroke of this man's palm along his damaged body.

Sam's vision misted, and it was anyone's guess if it was because he wouldn't be able to drift away tonight or because he hadn't been touched so delicately in years.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," the man said, voice soft, sad. Nevertheless a chill swept up and down Sam's spine with mental sirens and warning lights going off. He'd heard that sentence too many times. He blinked the forming tears away, forced his body to relax.

The man had stopped touching him, pausing as though reading Sam's thoughts. For a terrifying moment Sam considered whether this creature actually could read thoughts until he remembered the leviathans always screened for psychic ability as a security risk.

"Roll over," the man ordered, still soft and quiet though. Sam pulled out of his thoughts, took a deep breath and turned to lie on his back. He directed his eyes up and around the man's general vicinity. Unfocused, Sam's face remained a perfect mask of mild willingness, arms spread and legs open, the translucent shift he wore creating attractive shadows along the contours of his body.

Sam was braced for the man to lean in; to touch, push, rip the fabric and take. Maybe some painful extras, some fucked up surprises along the way perhaps hidden in the armoire but Sam knew the general road map.

So he was shocked when the guy looked him up and down then let out a disgusted grunt and moved from the bedside to the deep red velvet armchair next to it.

It struck Sam then that this creature hadn't gotten a great look at him when he'd chosen him, his face in particular. Launching into an internal panic over what it was about him that was so repulsive to this guy wasn't fun. If Sam got rejected and kicked out of this suite right now, the punishment was standard that he'd know hunger for a week.

Was it something about being a werecat? His ears - black fur on the outside, tan and white hairs on the inside - couldn't be it. The john had discovered he was a werecat by way of his ears and ordered him here so if anything they were the main selling point. Maybe it was Sam's tail but the john had already seen his tail when he'd walked in on the sight of Sam prone on the bed.

It had to be Sam's eyes. They were bigger than humans' with a unique structure and so many colors: irises a bright gold with some unusual spots of light greens and shades of blue. They rested large upon high cheekbones, one of which was bruised if Sam recalled his last glance at his reflection correctly.

Maybe that was the problem? His body was still marked from past johns?

But Sheldon had warned him. Surely he'd seen-

"What's your name?" the man asked, his voice rough now. One arm was across his stomach, the other covering his mouth.

Sam's eyes flitted to the creature's, took in its posture. Nothing denoted contempt but rather something more like grim interest; his posture indicated… nausea, maybe? Nausea wasn't a good sign but Sam still allowed some measure of patient optimism. The evening could still be saved. Sam shot another furtive glance at the john's eyes and realized they weren't just vivid. They had a low simmering glow deep inside them.

'Witch' hit the top of Sam's list of possible creatures this client could be.

"Hey, kiddo. What's your name?" He repeated evenly, leaning forward.

"S-Sam."

The man nodded and tiredly washed a hand down his face before abruptly coming to a stand. Sam froze in terror as the man bent over him.

But instead of any more touching the john took the expensive sheets Sam was lying on, gestured to Sam to lift up so he could get them out from under him, and before Sam could come up with any sick ideas for what this could mean for him the guy started covering him up with them.

—

Dean was ready to throw up as he let the linens fall over Sam's brutalized body, effectively discontinuing the nudity that had allowed him to see details that had his stomach roiling. The sight of the kid - because Dean realized the werecat had to be mid-twenties tops - was nauseating, how he'd been prepped; all the bruises and scrapes littering his body were glistening with oil, a palette of shiny purples, reds, blacks and blues painted his tan skin. And the werecat's tail wrapped so tightly along his thigh telegraphing so much pain and fear. When the were had rolled over onto his back, the expression plastered over his face had disturbed Dean just as much if not more. Blank like a doll with fissures of pure terror breaking through whenever Dean would do something unexpected.

"Sam," Dean repeated, knowing it'd mean something to say his name with fondness. "Sam. It's a really nice name," Dean complimented. The kid was trembling, eyes darting everywhere as Dean took things as steady and careful as possible. "Slow is smooth and smooth is fast" Dean repeated to himself in his mind. Totally different practical application of the special forces slogan but it worked with trauma survivors nonetheless. Move too fast and run into a trap of the survivor's presumptions that Dean had no way of predicting. But no movement at all and get pinned as no better than the rest of the kid's abusers.

Dean didn't speak or try for eye contact, just deftly pressed Sam's legs closed under the blankets then sat against the edge of the bed again to pull the sheets all the way over Sam's chest. He went back to Sam's feet and began tucking him in. It allowed him some time to think.

With how Sam had been treated, it was clear the leviathans had no idea how rare werecats were and how precious Sam would be to werecreatures everywhere. Dean allowed a small shiver over how much leverage they could've had over weres if they'd known. But that didn't excuse Crowley, the crossroads demon who'd run reconnaissance and given his intel report last week. Crowley knew how meaningful it would've been if they'd known a werecat was being kept here at the Cheyenne Club. Their mission would've shifted entirely in objective. Dean hid his fury over his suspicions that Crowley was planning to find Sam during the chaos of the main raid and whisk him off for his own demonic purposes before the Marrow Pack could even realize what he was much less find him and get him home.

With an imperceptible shake of his head Dean resolved not to think about it. He had bigger priorities. He finished tucking the kid in and focused on his name again. Sam. It fit.

"How about Sammy?" He asked softly, looking up. The kid flinched, strung tight as a cord. His arms were still stretched out like he was on a cross and Dean winced. He took the kid's hands - cold and limp as dead fish - folded them over his chest. Dean pressed his palms over Sam's, trying to warm them up, aching over the knowledge that all weres ran hot.

"Just Sam," he gulped, his breath uneven, a sheen of sweat visible over his brows, slipping down his temples.

Dean gave a quick attempt at a smile. He bit his lip, unsure of where to go from here. If he continued to touch and pet Sam like he had earlier and like he instinctively wanted to then the kid would prove more malleable just like any were under warm and tender touch. While it was in Dean's nature to do it and moreover in a way Sam was just as naturally inclined to accept, Dean finally dismissed further touching as an option. It felt manipulative and even unreliable: what if other creatures had discovered this potential weakness in weres and used it on Sam before? In that case Sam would melt under his touch but Dean would never gain the loyalty or trust of his mind.

So Dean pulled his hands away from Sam. The kid was wrapped snug in the soft silk and cotton linens and it mildly satisfied that part of Dean that needed him to be warm. The kid's huge kaleidoscopic eyes watched unblinking as Dean situated himself lower on the bed to sit near Sam's hips.

"I'm Dean." Dean pressed a hand against his chest. He noticed Sam's eyes widened at every gesture and made a point to be conscious how and where he moved his hands from now on. If he couldn't reassure Sam by touch, it had to be by these minor movements and behaviors. It wouldn't be so difficult. Dean was a predator but only to prey… and Sam wasn't prey. Sam was just about the farthest possible thing from prey. He was kin. When all this was over Dean would be taking him home - his home, the protective and nurturing grounds of the Marrow Pack.

Their futures were already so deeply intertwined and the poor were didn't even know it yet. Dean pressed his lips into a line, holding it together as he observed Sam's hands gripping the edges of the blankets tight. Dean looked up with watery eyes and prayed to Luna he could do this right. He checked his watch and reminded himself he had more than enough time. Cas wasn't even in the club yet and he was designated to make the first hostile move once in position with Tennyson.

Dean always had the option to go in later around the same time as Cas but the last place they'd taken down Dean had needed more time with the ghoul slave he'd chosen. She didn't trust him by the time Cas was in position to move and she'd turned out to be more of a liability than an asset. She was in Salem now in a small community of ghouls that fed off Leviathan slaughterhouse scraps.

So it was a lesson that Dean learned: he needed more time. Always as much time as he could plausibly get with a slave. Because when things went right, the intel Dean would recover saved far more lives than it ever jeopardized: nobody knew a compound's management and layout like the slaves.

In retrospect Dean was immensely grateful for every step taken that had led up to this one. He'd need this time for Sam, the first werecat he'd ever met who was also tragically the first enslaved werecreature he'd ever met.

"Look..." Dean trailed off, nervous, wondering where he should begin. He wanted to blurt he was a were too, that he was here to save him. But the kid's eyes were far too intelligent and skeptical to believe it. Dean would have to prove it at some point instead. So, where to start? It was just him and this scared kid with two sets of ears and mesmerizing eyes in a lavish suite thinking Dean was capable of unspeakable violations. Dean licked his lips, trying to think of the lowest-hanging fruit that could inspire trust. His eyes explored the room and fell upon the nightstand.

"I got it," Dean breathed, pressing his hands on top of his thighs so he wouldn't make any quick gestures. He didn't realize how much he spoke with his hands until he couldn't. "I'm going to order some food," he said as he leaned over slow and took the menu from the bedside table. Sam's cat's eyes tracked him but for the first time he didn't flinch at Dean's movements. Dean looked up for a fleeting moment to smile in response then flipped the menu open. Okay. So far so good. Next step. Promising no harm would come to Sam had proved a disaster just by the kid's body language after he'd said it. Dean had been disturbed by what that implied: most monsters didn't lie so most slaves found his promises reassuring. Sam had to have had severely unfortunate experiences with those monsters which did lie. Monsters that lied for fun enjoyed mind games, deeper psychological tortures. Dean had to move on from that train of thought there. It was doing him no good. On the upside, Dean had no reason to believe Sam would be different from any other slave in desperately wanting to know what Dean did want from them. That was actionable. Dean could give him that.

"Sam," Dean started by looking at him, then turned away. He thought about his cats that roamed the pack lands; how they were so averse to direct attention sometimes. So Dean fixed his gaze on the menu. "The only thing I want from you tonight is information."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean saw Sam's ears, camouflaged by his long tangled hair all night so far, instantly perk up. Dean suppressed a smile.

—

Sam felt his ears betray him. He squinted his eyes warily, jutted his chin, and scowled to compensate.

Dean needed information from him, he was communicating on a device that's supposed to be jammed by the club, he'd covered Sam with blankets, asked his name, briefly pet him like he cared, and now he was walking over to the telephone mounted to the wall between the armoire and the bathroom. Sam bit his lip, eyes wet despite himself as he listened to the honest-to-god words the man was speaking into the receiver.

"Yeah, room service. Yeah hi, can I get a cheeseburger with fries, and..." Dean glanced at Sam, eyes narrowed in thought, "do you guys have a meat plate? Charcuterie type of thing?"

Sam just blinked at him.

Dean finished up the call.

"Fifteen minutes." Dean rubbed his hands together and settled down in the armchair. They remained quiet. Sam's eyes wandered, trying to ignore how the air felt charged. But it was a somber quiet as well. Normally Sam was perceptive but he couldn't quite put his finger down on the mood. "Does it hurt to hear with two sets of ears?"

Sam was so surprised by the soft-spoken question he looked into Dean's eyes and found nothing but compassion.

Sam had barriers but not against kindness. Not against empathy, a sentiment he only knew from Jack these days. But Jack's were different from this man's because Jack relied upon Sam to diminish the perception of suffering, whether his own or Jack's or just stemming from their circumstances once they'd been captured back in Des Moines. Sam flourished under that pressure because it was a way to delude himself too. But this man, Dean… his eyes and expression depended on Sam for nothing but the truth. Sam could tell him everything - all the agony and trauma and hate he had in his heart - and it'd be okay; Dean would understand. And suddenly Sam was overwhelmed by a scent of pure comfort and familiarity before it completely vanished.

Sam shook his head, sure he'd imagined it, and wiped his face free of a tear that'd inexplicably fallen. What the hell…

"What do you want to know," Sam sniffled, disoriented but ready to get down to business. If the john wanted information Sam would give it and be done with this job. Go back to his crawl space of a booth on the display floor, forgotten in the dark where he could cry over his losses because that brief scent of something like home was unraveling him no matter how much he was trying to dismiss it as a figment of his imagination.

"Not yet," Dean waved smoothly and Sam blinked back tears of frustration. "Stay with me, Sam," Dean coaxed and again Sam's chest tightened over the sweetness of the man's tone. "So, where I come from there's these ancient myths about werecreatures."

Sam swallowed and looked away, bracing for the other shoe to fall, expecting to hear the worst falsehoods over werecreatures' natures that would lead to the justification of his abuse tonight.

"There's a place w-they go after they die."

Sam would've noticed the slip in Dean's chosen pronouns if he wasn't immediately filled with the terror by his implicit threat of death. His newfound fear must've shown.

"No no no, listen Sam," Dean leaned forward and Sam let him take his trembling hand. "Just listen, sweetie."

Sam scoffed and rolled his wet eyes.

"Sammy-?" Dean wheedled humorously, stroking the top of Sam's hand. Sam clenched his jaw against the touch.

"Better than 'sweetie' I guess," Sam replied sullenly, reluctantly loosening up under Dean's ministrations.

"Sammy," Dean chuckled kindly then let go of Sam's hand. Sam hated he wanted the touches back. He hated he liked the way Dean said 'Sammy.'

"So after weres die, people say they go to a place called Purgatory. But weres? Weres call it Luna's Kingdom."

Sam could feel his ears opening wider to listen and he even let himself meet Dean's eyes for a little longer.

"When you get there, you have to fight all kinds of creatures. All of Eve's creatures. Eve is most supernatural creatures' mother, but not werecreatures'." Dean stopped there and tilted his head, eyes wide open with curiosity and hope. An image of German Shepherd puppies trying to figure out a new sound came unbidden to the forefront of Sam's mind for comparison. It was a pretty good match.

Sam didn't know what to say though - what to offer Dean's expectant, curious look in return - so he just nodded. He was following Dean's story well enough.

"It's bleak and dismal at first and all you know is fighting and surviving. It's what everybody envisions with the word 'Purgatory.' But then," Dean lifted his index finger up. "Then you realize you've been going a certain direction the whole time. You've never doubled back or circled around by accident. You've been gaining ground this whole time to a place you didn't know you were going until you get there."

"Where?" Sam breathed, curiosity piqued. He ignored the fleeting expression of wistful sadness in Dean.

"Luna's Kingdom has its own smaller kingdoms for each of her creations. Weres have their own called the Luna Packlands. Every species earns their place in their kingdom by fighting and surviving long enough to get there. And once you do, you get to live and play safely with all other weres for the rest of your immortal life."

Sam chewed his lip and pressed his fingers against the blankets. "That sounds nice," he whispered. Dean smiled.

"I think so too."

A sharp rap at the door startled them both, Sam shrinking further against the bed, and Dean springing to his feet and pivoting, aligning himself so he'd break any line of vision from the door to Sam. Sam registered Dean's protective stance. It was alien to him, puzzling but… not in a bad way.

Another knock. "Sir, room service." Dean broke from his position with a small chuckle, stepping over and opening the door just slightly. Sam's ears twitched as he lifted his head up to hear.

"Let me see the food," Dean asked as though it were perfectly normal. The staffer complied in silence though so maybe it was. "Great. You can't bring the table in here though. I'll carry the food in myself, please leave it by the wall here." Dean instructed casually.

"Sir, I give you my word there is nothing I haven't seen before in that room. There is nothing to be ashamed of here at the Cheyenne."

Sam winced. That voice belonged to Ramsay. Equal parts sadistic and masochistic, Ramsay was a skinwalker whose loyalty and love of the club had elevated his position from slave to waitstaff.

"Understood. Now get out of here."

"Sir," Ramsay retorted and Sam watched Dean's body tense, pushing his shoulders back, stance widening. "If I were to see what you have done to the werecat in there, I wouldn't even think anything untoward about your… treatment of him." Sam cringed and pressed his hands to his face. If Dean had even the smallest desire to inflict harm upon Sam and needed a nudge, Ramsay would smell it and get through that door. Sam pressed against his bruises as the skinwalker pressed on. "Whatever state he's in, sir, it would be my plea-"

"Please stop there," Dean interrupted and Ramsay did. Sam was shocked by the restrained promise of violence in it. "Go… away."

"Very good, sir," Ramsay muttered, cowed, before Sam heard the cart shuttle to a stop along the wall. Small quick successive steps disappeared down the hall. Dean went out of sight for a second and Sam blinked in disbelief. That had just happened.

Dean pushed the door open with his back, the giant plate of meats and cheeses requiring both hands just by sheer surface area. He set it down on the center of the bed. Sam scrambled up, covers slipping off him as he pressed against the headboard as though the plate were about to bite him. Panicked eyes flitted between Dean and the food.

Dean opened his mouth as though to say something but shut it just as fast. "Okay," he breathed, "Just a sec." He put his index finger up and then rushed back out… to the cart for more food, Sam figured. He took the time to calm down. He didn't know exactly why he'd reacted that way to so much food just landing in front of him. He never would have imagined that'd be his reaction. He stared at the platter and let the impact of it finally take hold of him.

As messed up as it was, he was relaxed by the familiar hunger building up in him. It oriented him; anchored him back down to where he was.

Dean came back in with a smaller plate with a metal cover over it. He set it down on the seat of the velvet armchair and turned, resolute, to face Sam. He started talking as he unbuttoned his velvet blazer and Sam fought the anxiety of seeing this man disrobing by focusing on his words.

"Sammy, I'm trying to tell you something as tactfully as possible. Those ancient myths aren't myths, and only werecreatures know about it."

Sam froze. Did Dean hunt weres?

Is that why he was so intense the instant he discovered Sam was a werecat? Sam was the last of a practically extinct type of were and now Dean got to kill the last one? Was that plate for him his last meal? Had Dean been kind to him so far simply because he knew he'd be mercy-killing him by the end of their time together?

Sam didn't realize he'd started to gasp and shake under the weight of his thoughts. He curled up, knees pressed to his forehead, weakly pressing his back against the headboard. Tears slipped down his face and crying would've meant he had enough air…

Sam vaguely heard the sound of Dean's voice but none of his words or tone. The ceiling of his world was collapsing and Sam just wanted it over with now, the state of his mind and current life, all his decisions and life events leading him up to this one moment of happenstance where a lone wealthy hunter had found him to kill-

Sam felt something, a light fabric of some kind, drop over his shoulders. He took his next gasping breath and suddenly calm clarity slammed back into him. That fleeting scent he'd noticed before - that pure comfort, familiarity, home scent washing over him in heavy waves of every inhale.

Sam tugged on it, wrapping himself further in. It was slippery smooth on the inside and fuzzy on the outside. Sam's cries tapered off as he strove to breathe deeper, to let the scent carry itself into him and do its work; hold him steady and build his strength. For the love of Luna, it was so much stronger than nostalgia. It felt like a tangible reminder of the love he'd experienced when he'd been home among his kind, his parents, his childhood friends.

Before the massacre of their territory.

He'd only been a kitten.

Dean's smooth tone filtered into his awareness, then his words.

"-okay, you're all right. Everything's gonna be fine. I would definitely be sobbing too if it was my first time I'd smelled another were in years, even if it is a pretty weak scent. But actually the suppressant might be wearing off by now so maybe it's stronger than I thought it'd be, I don't know. Might need to take another one, or like half of one. Maybe-" and Dean just carried on talking to himself, his tone never wavering from softness but the words themselves were just an idle inner monologue.

"You're a were?" Sam finally choked out, looking up at Dean under wet lashes. Dean stopped talking and looked up from where he was sitting at the foot of the bed and his eyes glowed greener. Sam hadn't been imagining that only it wasn't a witch, it was the suppressed glow of a were's natural eyes under an intense, instinctive emotion. Sam had forgotten that was an aspect of weres'. His eyes had been dull for years.

Dean nodded. "Wolf," he supplied, eyes alight. Sam swallowed nervously but dared to openly look at the man anew. He'd never met another were since the massacre, having escaped and then survived alone as a kid then a teenager, picking his way through the desolate rubble and debris of abandoned cities and suburbs. He'd become a fantastic scavenger and a clever defensive fighter when he'd occasionally encounter hostiles of all shapes and sizes. Either as a result of fortune or misfortune - Sam would find out by dawn - neither allies nor enemies he'd encountered had ever been were.

Dean's blazer was gone; he was just in the black button-up now. He'd unbuttoned a couple at the top, further revealing unblemished chest and neck, and rolled the cuffs up. It was informal, almost vulnerable, and Sam, feeling uncharacteristically confident with that scent emanating from the fabric draped over him sparking something within him he didn't even know he'd had, asked another question.

"What are you here for?"

"I'm Marrow Pack leadership. Our operation was to infiltrate the Cheyenne Club," Dean clipped off the end of the sentence like there was more but he was holding back. Sam noticed. Dean knew Sam noticed. He stuck to his silence though.

"…was your operation?" Sam asked, wondering at his own boldness.

Dean's mouth twitched like he was restraining a smile. He shrugged, his expression going neutral. "Well, it still is."

Sam studied Dean and opened his mouth to ask something else but Dean cut him off before he could. "Eat," he ordered, and pointed at the charcuterie. Sam's eyes narrowed. "I'm not fucking with you. Dig in," Dean insisted. Sam tracked Dean as he got up to get his own food from the seat of the armchair. He deliberately ignored Sam's gaze as he put the metal cover on the floor and sat down in the armchair with the plate in his lap.

Sam shifted uncomfortably at the sight. There was no doubt lingering in Sam's mind whether Dean was a wolf or not just by virtue of the way he ate.

How the hell had Dean, a werewolf, gotten into the Cheyenne Club? Growing up alone without any kind of schooling or traditional education, it was actually through the Cheyenne Club and the other slaves that Sam had learned quite a lot, including modern history. Twenty years ago the Leviathans surfaced on Earth and strategically positioned themselves for an effective strike against human civilization. The genocide of humanity was finished in scant months, cutting the global population down to less than a third of what it'd been. Werewolves - like all other supernatural creatures - came out into the open quickly after that. Only unlike most of them, werewolves joined the surviving human resistance in fighting against the Leviathan. It was for several reasons, the most important one being they - like all weres - had moral compasses similar to humans'. Since they were the largest population of weres and the most organized, the werewolves came out on top after they battened down the hatches of their packlands and territories, accepted their allies through their barriers, and fought Leviathans with deft strategy that hadn't failed them yet. Sam was told other creatures like werebears, werefoxes, and even selkies often requested werewolf shelter for help or backup for any assaults or battles to be mounted against the Leviathan. So Sam was surprised Dean had managed to get in to a leviathan club like this. Weres - but werewolves in particular - were Leviathans' most threatening enemies in this day and age.

He took a breath, glanced down, and finally realized the fabric around him was Dean's velvet blazer. With vague embarrassment, he examined it. This was so distinctly Dean's scent. He never would've thought anyone other than perhaps another werecat could smell like kin in this manner but apparently it was all weres. Sam thought back to earlier when Dean had been talking, he'd said he'd taken a suppressant. That must've been how he'd gotten into the Cheyenne Club without anyone smelling him. But it must have worn off like crazy if his jacket was any indication.

"This really smells," Sam murmured, concerned, feeling along the lapel.

"Thanks," Dean laughed.

"No, I mean. They'll know. They'll know if you get close to them. Like Ramsey…" Sam trailed off, confused by Dean shaking his head.

"No no, don't worry. The only reason you can smell it so well is first because you haven't smelled another were in…" Dean winced, "awhile," he finished comically. "Two, because weres smell weres way better than any other creature, and three because the suppressant is wearing off but not enough just yet to be noticeable by non-were creatures," Dean explained and Sam relaxed as he followed along. When he was done, Dean took a huge bite of his cheeseburger. "You know, you can put it all the way on. And then eat," Dean garbled, his mouth disgustingly full. Sam grimaced, which caused Dean to laugh which offered Sam an even wider view of the wolf's masticated food.

Sam looked away, somewhat confused he was holding back a smile of his own. He put his arms through the sleeves and inched his way forward to the platter on the bed, leaned in and hovered to scent the meat. His mouth watered and he picked at the slices of glazed ham first. When the taste hit him, Sam couldn't help but whimper and kneel up further over the food.

"Take your time, Sammy, don't rush. It can hurt if you eat too much when you haven't eaten in awhile."

Well-acquainted with the phenomenon, Sam nodded in acknowledgment, eyes sparkling with gratitude.

With that, they fell upon their food in mutual silence. Sam ate the entire platter without needing any further word of caution from Dean. When Sam was done, Dean gave him fries he'd pulled off his platter and saved for him. Sam just stared at him, disbelief fighting the rising trust this man was building between them.

"How do you half-shift?" Dean asked suddenly, throwing Sam for another loop.

"I uh… I can't," Sam tucked himself further into Dean's jacket before pushing the blankets away to reveal his ankle. A delicate metal brace wrapped around it, intricate symbols traced in the metal. "It's a cursed object. Paralysis. Keeps me like this, mid-shifted."

Dean leaned closer, examining it.

"Does it hurt?" He looked up just in time to spot Sam hiding his face. "Hey," Dean placed his palm along his foot. "It's okay. You can tell me."

"Yeah," Sam finally answered, voice surprisingly firm due to the unmistakable undercurrent of anger in it. "All the time. I haven't been able to shift into either of my true forms for years." His chin trembled and his voice quavered towards the end. He'd never said it out loud before and now that he had it was like a heavy weight slamming into him, the words of such blatant endless torture causing him to realize even more the nightmare he was living.

Dean just nodded with undivided attention, the light in his eyes having diminished, their color now mossy but brimming with compassion on Sam's behalf.

Just Dean's expression alone threatened to break Sam. He looked away, wiped tears from his cheeks and rubbed the salty wetness off his fingers bitterly. "I wouldn't shift on command, so." Sam shrugged and looked up to stave off any further tears. He noticed bloodstains in the wood and stared at the shapes they made.

"Sammy, come on," Dean said, voice low. Sam felt the were's hand on his ankle. It settled him so quickly he could hardly believe it. When Dean next spoke he was centered, attentive. "Okay, Sammy. How do we get this off you? Or stop it from working?"

Sam sniffed as he nodded, "Yeah, okay, um," he shifted so he could take a look at it again with Dean. "I think there's a key but I know the witch who made this. He's weak. You could probably just shoot it off. I'd heal the minute I could finish a shift."

"Okay," Dean dragged out, fiddling with it. Sam watched and held his breath, trying to maintain composure as Dean slipped a finger under and pulled to see how much space he had to work with. "I don't have a gun on me," Dean muttered distractedly as he angled the brace looking for any symbols sketched on the inside.

Sam would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed. "We'll get it off though," Dean added casually and Sam was almost ashamed how fast the hope surged back up in him.

He fought the onslaught of questions pouring into his mind just with that one simple… promise? Was it a promise? It sounded more like a fact. Thrown out breezily like Dean didn't understand what he was actually saying.

"Uh, okay. When?"

Dean looked up quickly, put his hands up. "When I get a gun." He grinned.

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, then shook his head clear. "Right. Okay." He coughed and pulled some of the blankets up over his legs. He was getting cold. "There's an armory in the west wing."

"We know about that," Dean nodded. "What about Tennyson's office?"

Sam eyed Dean. "Yeah, Tennyson probably has one. Is he, uh. The main guy you came for?"

Dean leaned forward and nodded slowly. He tilted his head. "What is it?" He asked, unnaturally perceptive.

"There's another slave here. Jack. We got captured together a few years ago."

"Okay," Dean said patiently.

"He's with Tennyson tonight."

Dean's brows furrowed, lips pressed into a line as though he completely understood the desperation and weight in Sam's implicit request. Without warning he pressed against his ear, tilting his head to the side. "Come in, Fahrenheit. Green checking in. Report?" Dean remained still for awhile, listening. "Copy. Updating with an alert. There's a slave named Jack," he enunciated, "at Wings' position. He's an asset." Another pause. "That is correct. Over and out."

Dean tapped his ear on a sigh while Sam gaped.

"What kind of creature is Jack?" Dean asked. After he'd made the order to protect Jack.

Just on Sam's word alone Dean had told someone on his team to protect Jack.

"Sam, c'mon," Dean was suddenly hovering near dropping blankets around him. "You're shivering."

"I'm… this isn't…" Sam stuttered, tightening his grip on the velvet that smelled like home while Dean bundled him up further.

"I know. It's shock. It's okay, sweetie," Dean added under his breath, so low Sam decided he'd ignore it just this once. He ducked his head as Dean pulled a sheet up along the back of his neck. "Better?"

Sam nodded.

"Okay kiddo, here's the plan. We're gonna stay in this room for awhile still. One of my team's gonna take out Tennyson and protect Jack. Then it's gonna get loud, okay? Busy. Smoky. When I get the all clear on my radio," Dean touched his earpiece and Sam nodded in understanding, "we're gonna keep our heads down and make our way to the nearest exit."

"What about Jack?"

"Jack's gonna be with Cas and Cas is gonna get him out of here the same way I'm getting you out of here, okay?"

Sam had so many questions he just shook his head. "What… what about the rest of the slaves?"

"We'll be getting them out, just not as fast as you and Jack. Are some of them human?"

Sam nodded distractedly. "Yes."

"Okay. At least our intel was accurate on that."

"How are you handling Sebastian?"

"Who?"

Sam's eyes widened. "You… you don't know about Sebastian?" he whispered.

Dean's brows furrowed as he gave a confused shake of his head.

"Tennyson's important. He's head manager. But… Sebastian." Sam swallowed, "Sebastian is the main one, the most powerful one. The leader."

They shared a look and Dean tapped his ear again. "Come in, Fahrenheit."

Dean proceeded to inform his team their intel was compromised. Someone named Crowley had missed the less visible leader of the Cheyenne Club. Fahrenheit received Dean's intel and confirmed understanding there was a new second target with the whole team.

"Sam, where's Sebastian's office?" Dean whispered.

"Couple levels below… by our barracks."

"That where he'd be now?"

Sam gave an apologetic shrug. Dean relayed with clarity. "Copy," he finished, then looked at Sam. "We're all on standby."

He washed a hand down his face.

"I've never seen this," he shook his head, then looked to Sam for more answers Sam hoped he could give. "Why's this leviathan so powerful but he's quartered by slaves?" Dean figured this must be how Crowley missed the creature; it was virtually unheard of for leadership to spend much time by the slaves' barracks.

Sam frowned, grim. "He could do anything here but he chooses to stay near us. He," Sam swallowed, struggling to get it out, "he likes… um…" Sam trailed off, eyes watering.

Dean huffed with disgust, startling Sam. "Say no more," he muttered as he got up and paced. He stopped.

"Does he come when Tennyson calls?"

Sam shook his head. "More the other way around."

Dean bit his lip on a frown and nodded, went back to pacing.

"Tell me more about him. Nothing… no," Dean insisted, seeing the stricken look on Sam's face. "Just… we need to find him, get him into an actionable position for taking him down as quickly as possible. So… I just want to know what'll make him move, you know? What kind of problem or decoy would get his attention."

The color drained from Sam's face.

"The main floor. Would… that be a good position?"

Dean winced and look up in thought. "We could make that work. Why? What'll get him on the main floor?"

Sam shivered as he took Dean's jacket off, cutting himself off from all the comfort and strength it'd been lending him ever since Dean had slipped it on, and offered it back to the werewolf.

"Me."

A/N: Ahhh cliffhangers. But because it's a bang, the next chapter's already posted! Bang fics really are like the Netflix seasons of fanfiction, aren't they? Just binge this right through on a hopefully lovely Monday.

Thank you so much for reading - please comment if you've got a minute! Love ~ Alex